


Like Clockwork

by Princely_Sheep



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, Rating subject to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princely_Sheep/pseuds/Princely_Sheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spies and traitors are not the only things we have to worry about, now; news has reached to me of The Condesce's plan to rule over us all with the help of clockwork beings, and you must know how hard it is to kill something composed solely of cogs, springs, and gears, don't you?</p><p>It's time for the rebel group to get more acquainted with force, and make haste with it too. Time is not on our side, and the minutes are only ticking down to total annihilation--Earl Vantas, please hurry before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, first fic here, I'm both excited and nervous, heh. So, a few notes before we start:  
> This is an AU, Humanstuck fic!! It takes place during an era akin to the Victorian era, but the setting is on a largely changed Alternia. The kids will be included, and everybody is aged up.
> 
> There is a slight bit of modernization and a few pokes in the steampunk direction, but not many. Ancestors will be related to their descendants in various ways, romantic relationships will go every which way, etc etc. Also, diversity is delicious and the trolls will be given various ethnic backgrounds as well.  
> The Ancestors will also be given names, but their titles will also be used. Their significance will probably be explained as the story unfolds!!
> 
> With that said and done, please enjoy!

_My lord English,_

_Many a day has passed since the last congregation here at the General’s manor, so I write to you in haste with what I believe to be the final decision of Her Imperious Condescension. The empress has been losing her harsh grip on the reigns of society, as expected, due to the actions of the Wild Cards rebels; she has tolerated it so far, but the last straw has been placed and I do believe the camel’s back is now broken beyond repair. She is beginning to take extreme actions now, and she’s plotting something most interesting._

_Do you know of clockwork beings, my Lord? Machines and contraptions working on nothing but the turning and twisting of gears, and the careful placement of both springs and cogs; they need no fuel or sustenance. Her Condescension is now striving to create a society where these clockwork beings, which she has lovingly named ‘Imperial Drones’ in one of her brief lapses of humor, lurk in the dark or walk in the open and dispose of those who do not fancy her rule. They would exist simply to rid the world of rebels and the unfavorable—this a hindrance to your future plans of acquiring the throne for yourself, is it not? I am ready to interfere with these plans if necessary._

_The goings-on around me are the same, I must report. Mr. Makara, the son of the second General (I’m sure you know of the Grand Highblood, for the second General is he), has been visiting Dualscar’s brother at the most critical of times. Mr. Ampora and Dualscar both think he is just interested in Imperial affairs as he should be, albeit much more passively than what is deemed the norm. This is not the case I’m sure, as I’ve seen Mr. Makara furtively writing letters in the parlor after speaking with Mr. Ampora and Dualscar. He always gives his messages to my sister to deliver, but I’ve often relieved her of transporting these messages to see its contents for myself._

_Karkat Vantas is his name; the one on the receiving end of these messages, and a member of the Wild Cards no doubt. The messages contain nearly the same information I have been providing for you, explaining the happenings at the various houses of high-ranking officials, and even going in depth on soldier schedules and planned culling raids. This leads me to believe that Mr. Makara has been a member of the Wild Cards for quite some time, especially with the informal phrases he use frequently when referring to this man._

_Along with one of the other parlor maids here at Dualscar’s manor (Roxy Lalonde if you have forgotten since our last exchange of messages), Mr. Makara makes it two spies for the Wild Cards in the bosom of the Imperials. They must believe they are ahead of themselves, but I fear that is definitely not the case. For, you see, my Lord…_

_I have located a traitor within the rebel group._

_They will prove to be a problem for the Wild Cards and may inflict a wound that would surely take months to mend. I do hope the rebels are able to weed the traitor our before that problem comes, or their efforts to stop Her Condescension will be hindered greatly. It may even be too late._

_Alas, worrying about the future is not something I’ve time to do. The General must be catered to, and it’s high time I emerged from my quarters. Until next time, my Lord._

_Your loving maid,_

_The Handmaid_

 

“Bao-yu,” the voice is almost too quiet to pick up, but the Handmaid, with her finely tuned hearing, is able to pick it up with ease. She looks up—it’s her younger sister Aradia, of course; only she knew of her actual name besides the General. She stands at the door to their shared quarters with her hands held behind her back and a knowing look in her eyes, with the ghost of a smile on her face.

“Are you writing another letter to Sir English?” She asked. Lord English was a man Bao-yu wrote to frequently under the guise of secretive courtship, and Aradia found it awfully romantic, if not a bit dangerous. Parlor maids were not allowed to be courted, and if Dualscar ever found out… The Handmaid nods, setting the quill in her hand down on the table. Aradia takes this silence as an okay to continue speaking, “the General is requesting you; he says he wishes for the parlor to be cleaned. General Highblood and Mr. Makara will be arriving soon.” She rocks easily on her heels before taking a step back. “I’m going to the kitchen to prepare some tea now. _Yī huĭr jiàn._ ” With a bow and a turn, Aradia leaves the room.

If General Highblood was arriving, then they’d surely be going over more military plans. That meant that Mr. Makara would be writing another letter to that Vantas stranger, and that the Handmaid would probably have to include another page in her letter before she sent it to her Lord. That was okay, though; this happened often enough for her to get used to it. More information just meant an easier way to obtain the throne for her Lord, anyway.

With a small quirk of her lips, and a brief flutter of lashes, Bao-yu rises from her seat. It was time for a bit more reconnaissance, it seems.


	2. So a Scotsman walks into a study....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earl Vantas does partake in his fair share of quality brooding time, thus earning the title of 'The Sufferer'. It's a bit deeper than you think, though; one never knows the full extent of another's misery, and the Earl prefers to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next will probably just settle the first pieces of the plot and consist of the first few character introductions.  
> Warning in advance that there will be gratuitous (and man do I mean gratuitous) usage of Scotticisms and a bit of French. If there are any translation mistakes, please do tell!!
> 
> Following the suggestion of my beta, I will include the human names that I've picked out for the Ancestors as I introduce them. For this chapter there are four: Kenway - Sufferer, Lalika - Dolorosa, Puleng - Disciple, and Caolan - Psiioniic. These names are relevant to the characters so kudos to anybody who can find out what each name means <3

“ _Wigs?_ ” There’s an impatient drumming of fingers on a desk in the center of a quaint little room where three strangers reside; the one with the cadenced fingers sat behind the desk, perched on a leathery black chair, while the remaining two stood in presentation, each propping a box up on their hip.

 “Aye, _wigs_.” One of the men holding a box readjusts its weight, replying with a roll of his eyes. “Ah dinna— _I_ don’t see a problem with it. If you ask me, it makes plenty of sense.” There’s a pleasing lilt to his tone; an effort of reformation to his accent and the tiniest lisp that showed he was not of English descent.

“Think about it, Vantas. It’s one thing to take down an empire, but another to knock at the ol’ hag’s door without a disguise and expect to get away with it. Do you know what the newspapers’ll say the day after that happens?”

 The last stranger, a blonde with oddly tinted glasses propped precariously atop his nose, finally comments with an amused smirk, “Earl Vantas, slain by the witch of Alternia. _Comment triste, comment triste_!”He leans back and a hand flings dramatically to his forehead as he makes a pained expression. “Without our _beloved_ Earl Vantas, we’d have to pass leadership on to his little brother.” The blonde drops the box onto the desk, earning a glare from the Earl. He continues anyway, brushing his fringe away from his face.

“God knows Karkat isn’t ready for any sort of leadership shit. Do you know that, Earl?” He leans onto the desk, peering down at the agitated man before him, “our little Scott Captor here can testify for me, too. He always has his head up his ass and he’s usually just interested in his own affairs. Why, just yesterday I saw him chasing around that Pyrope girl with stupid hearts in his eyes-“

 “Dave, I _do_ quite think that’s enough.” Vantas finally speaks up, sighing audibly. He leans forward and drops his head onto the desk, eliciting an arch of brows from Dave and a small ‘here we go’ from Sollux. _Somebody_ was in one of their moods today. This wouldn’t end as quickly as the two men hoped it would.

**______________________________________________________________**

 

A few doors down, where an Earl wasn’t whining obsessively, a brunette similar to Sollux in both voice and looks emerges from a room and eyes two women standing just outside.  “Lalika,” He nods at one of the women, a tanned slender thing easily reaching six feet. She nods back, her darkly painted lips curtsying into a smile. “Puleng,” he nods at the other girl, who was average in height; she grins at him and waves.

 “Good afternoon, Caolan.” Lalika nods once again, grabbing the sides of her skirts to curtsy. “Odd that you’re out and about at this time,” She blinks curiously. “I figured you’d be with our dear Kenway in his study.” Caolan rolls his eyes. He and Kenway were close, but they weren’t joined at the hip or anything. “And why would I be with him right now?”

 Puleng, absently twirling a lock of wild dark hair, pipes in, “Your little brother and that Frenchman Strider came back from their assisting operation just a wink ago. They were lumberin’ some pretty heavy boxes with them.”

“Really now? Ah haven’t caught a keek of Sollux the whole morning, but it makes sense now I guess. Why were they carrying boxes though?” He was pretty sure they were only sent on a mission to retrieve a few things.

Puleng stops fiddling with her hair and brightens considerably as a thought passes her by. “Maybe it’s an early Christmas surprise for us! We’ve been working so hard, after all-”

“Of course, you know, except for the fact that it’s the middle of June and I’m pretty sure you and a good chunk of people here aren’t Catholic.”

“Touché! But still pretty rude.” It was true.

 Their rebel group was a collection of pure- and mongrel-blooded folk from different corners of the world; there were so many nationalities and different ethnic backgrounds in the organization that race wasn’t even a thing to _consider_ anymore. They began to wishfully think of the world as a united land mass, a utopia simply buried under a thick layer of dystopian rule. Tones of skin and accented voices were nothing special, and came second always—Puleng’s milk-chocolate skin, Lalika with her own warm honey-colored skin, and even Caolan’s heavy Scottish accent and his need to drop in a few unheard of words was something not everybody cared much for or took note of in the group. It was…intrinsically pleasing, this diversity; not as weird as most would think it was.

 “Now now, you two,” Lalika places a hand at the small of Puleng’s back, preparing to escort her elsewhere. “Psiioniic, you should go and check up on the Sufferer and your brother,” Lalika was using their titles—she only used them when she was about to busy herself with something important. “I myself need to make haste. The Disciple here and her sister must be suited properly for their reconnaissance bout.”

 “Reconnaissance…you mean the meeting with the nobles? If that’s the case, then be careful. Our recent letter from Makara infers that there’s a possibility of one of The Condesce’s generals being at the next assembly.” Caolan frowns. The possibility of Nepeta meeting with one of the generals did not sit well with him. What if something didn’t go as planned?

 Lalika, seemingly reading his mind, smiles softly. “Have faith in him, Psiioniic. If there’s anybody that knows the Sufferer it’s you. Now go and see what those three are up to.”

 “Alright, mum. I’ll get right to that.”

**_______________________________________________________________**

 

“…not to mention the fact that Karkat isn’t ready to start learning how to be a leader, or to take on my duties if something were to happen to me,” Half an hour later and the Earl is still groaning, his voice constantly muffled by the cherry wood of the desk. “It’s my fault for being a horrible brother and it’s my fault for even teaching him the process of _courting_.”

“Whoa, wait, you what-“

“If I’d never done that he probably would have never caught on to that Pyrope woman’s intentions and he would have never went astray from his path to helping in the organization and I simply _don’t_ need to be reminded of whose fault this is because I know it’s mine, it’s always mine.”

“Well, if you want to put it that way then-“

“Yes I most certainly want to put it that way Strider, it’s clearly my fault and I’m not suitable to raise children because _this_ is the fucking result I get, this is the summation of the stress and -“

 “Don’t get your knickers in a twist now, Kenway” The door to the study opens and, after a curious peek around the room, the Psiioniic steps inside. “The next thing we need is you foaming at the mouth like a _bampot_.”

The Earl shudders visibly and lifts his head from the desk, frowning “Oh my _god_ ,” Another groan. “Just what I need, another Scott in the room. Are you here to bring up unsavory things too?”

 Both Caolan and Sollux let out a light gust of laughter, looking at each other in amusement. “Inferring that all Scotts bring up unsavory things, are you? That’s pretty rude, Earl.” Sollux questions in amusement. The Sufferer’s distaste for ‘Scotts’ was nothing new—in fact, most of them treated it as a long-running joke, if nothing else.

“Haud yer wheesht, brother, before he blows his top,” The Psiioniic arches a brow, grinning. “It seems to me our little Kenny here isn’t in the best of moods today.”

“Maybe one of Nepeta’s cats nicked him clean on his backside. I wouldn’t doubt it.”

 “Haud _yer_ wheesht, why don’t you.” Kenway grumbles, rubbing his temples.

 Caolan tuts. “Temper, Kenway. You’ll give the new recruits a bad image of us if you keep this up.”

 "So is this why your title is The Sufferer? Because it sure as hell makes sense now.”

 “Not funny, Strider. Not funny at all.”

 A comfortable silence falls between the four men, and the Psiioniic stares pensively at the opened boxes. There were…wigs inside? He raises a brow, about to ask about them when the Sufferer cuts him off, “They’re to disguise our hair, apparently.” Huh, must have been some weird best friend sixth-sense or something. “Some of us have…unforgettable hair as you know,” at this, his thoughts wander to the Nitram cousins and their odd choice in hair styling. Was that a thing all Spaniards did, or was it just them? “And going in with recognizable hair is like going in with a giant ‘I’m a fucking idiot’ sign on our backs, so... Out of all the things they could have purloined from that museum, they decided to take the _historical wigs_.” Oh. That explained it.

 Sollux lets out an indignant huff. “We still got proper disguises at least, so cut us some slack.”

 True. Asking somebody to walk into a museum and steal something for them was not commonly inquired, and the task wasn’t just another errand to run. They probably incapacitated a lot of guards just to get by. Hell, Caolan was pretty damn proud of his brother and Dave for even having the gall to complete the mission. “You two did well,” he says, nodding to himself. “You should have the rest of the evening to yourselves now. Go on, you’re dismissed.” He waves a hand toward them.

“Aye aye, brother. We’ll be seein’ each other later then, I jalouse.” Sollux nods and Dave simply tilts his head in a silent goodbye before they leave.

Another silence falls into the room, this one shorter than the previous. “You know there’s a possibility that The Condesce is going to use the theft of those wigs to shame us as a petty band of thieves, don’t you?” Caolan’s lips twitch downward momentarily as he voices his worry. Dark lashes flutter downward as the Sufferer stares at the papers littered on his desk. He did not think of that.

“So…I heard Puleng and Nepeta were going out on a mission.” He notes the tiny widening of the Sufferer’s eyes as he mentions the Disciple and the mission.

“Right, that’s right.” Kenway glances at the boxes. “She and I—we’re going to a meeting. As a…” He clears his throat, and the Psiioniic raises his brows curiously “…A couple. Nepeta will be our child. Most improper, I know, but the other earls—the dukes as well, are under the impression that I’ve been married for quite some time now. A foolish mistake on my part during the last assembly of the nobility, I suppose.” “You suppose? With that awfy _beamer_ you’re sporting, I figured that ‘foolish mistake’ you made was just a reason to get the Disciple with you.” The Sufferer looks up at Caolan, fidgeting in his seat. He notices fondly how the Earl never knew how to properly hide how he was feeling, even since they were little kids.

“What the bloody hell is a _‘beamer’_ and what are you going on about?” After being caught red-handed, he was prone to asking questions, if only to divert the interrogator’s attention elsewhere. Caolan knew better though and skipped over the question as if it were nothing.

“Aw, come on Kenway. It’s obvious you fancy Puleng.” That elicited a strange choking sound from the Sufferer.

“Me, fancy her? But she’s…she’s…” His cheeks get redder by the second and he tries to bury his face into the crook of his arm as he leans back onto the desk.

“She deserves somebody better, not somebody who whines as much as I do. And I’m pretty sure she thinks of me as nothing but a brotherly figure of some sort.” Possibly. Kenway, Caolan, and Puleng all grew up together along with Karkat, Sollux, and Nepeta. They were orphans, the six of them, taken in by Lalika during their ages of youth to be properly cared for. Puleng and Nepeta…they both came from Africa, arriving in London under mysterious circumstances. They never elaborated on their past like the other four did, but they were never pressured about it.

When Puleng first arrived at the dingy little house that was Lalika’s home with a sleeping baby bundled up in her arms, she was not scared. Unlike Kenway who cried longingly for his parents and ignored all social contact from everybody but Karkat, she introduced herself with a polite curtsy and a nod. She was all smiles, no negativity whatsoever, and even the baby with her—Nepeta, just a few months old—rarely cried. She was only seven at the time but already matured mentally, and Kenway found that to be a very attractive trait. Years growing up together morphed his views of her. An admirable little sister at nine, an object of puppy love at fourteen, a slight obsession at twenty, and then realization hit, “I was 25 when I first realized my affections for her were more than what I thought them to be, you know.” The Sufferer mumbles quietly, peering embarrassedly up at the Psiioniic. “It’s been four years now and I still haven’t told her yet. Do you think there will ever be a time for me to? To…tell her, I mean.”

“Maybe when this is all over. I can’t guarantee that that’ll be anytime soon, though. The best we can do is hope that it is.”

The Sufferer purses his lips. “Sometimes hope is not enough, I’m afraid.” He gets up, pressing his hands against his cheeks. “Sometimes we need to take matters into our own hands. I guess now is one of those times, and…well.” There’s a pause, and the Psiioniic knows that Kenway’s words will not be completed.

“I should be getting ready for the meeting now. I’ll see you when I return, I hope?” By his tone, the Psiioniic knew they’d talk more when he got back from reconnaissance. For now, he’d have to wait.

“Aye. I’ll be in the parlor when you get back. Be safe out there, you hear me? One of the generals may be there, and I know it’d be a pain in the ass if it was Makara’s dad.”

Caolan raises a hand and with his index finger taps at his chest where his heart would be. “ _Alea iacta est_.” The die has been cast. It was tradition within their group to see someone off on a mission with a few choice phrases, and this one was Caolan’s favorite.

The Sufferer taps above his own heart. “I’ll see you later, then."


	3. For your information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, one can never have too much information. So what if they wove a web to catch it all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haHAH OH MY GOD THIS IS INCREDIBLY LATE I'M SO SORRY???? It's....really long though (okay not really only like six thousand words) so I think that makes up for it!!! But...my beta is on hiatus so uh there may be a grammatical error. No matter how hard I look I always miss one!!  
> Anyway, the Ancestor names are as follows: Bao-yu - Handmaid, Marcas - Dualscar, Magnus - Highblood, Lyubov - Mindfang, Abrafo - Darkleer, and Zacari - Redglare!
> 
> Fantrolls will be used in this fic, and they will play varying roles--some important, some not! Keep that in your mind for now :')

The parlor was warm and fairly lit, and the fireplace was as clean as a whistle. The hearth was not lit and had not been lighted for days now; there was no need for it, as the summer season brought about its usual sweltering heat and warm moonlit nights. Instead of gas lamps brightening the room, there were many electric lights dotting the walls.

The last occupant to enter the room took this all in as he normally did; rolling his eyes at the flourish the lighting seemed to have. He would go with gas lamps and their eerie glow any day of the week.

“General Highblood, if you will.” He’s brought out of his thoughts by the head maid, a girl from the orient whose face held a disinterested expression and, if you studied her closely, the smallest slivers of a calculating look. He has seen her countless times while visiting Dualscar; Dualscar always called the girl Bao-yu, while the other maids and servants refrained from calling her anything but the Handmaid, or something of the sort. She’s motioning for him to sit in the cushy armchair facing Dualscar, who was busying himself with a smoking pipe.

The Grand Highblood approaches the seat and smiles, the upturn of his lips resembling the fondness one would show towards a newborn pup. “Now now, maid. We’ve been over this.” Said maid looks at him curiously before he continues, “Your hand gestures are to remain at a minimum in my presence.” The smile curls a little more into a grin and, at the very corners of his vision, the Highblood can see Dualscar rolling his own eyes.

The Handmaid was like no other, for she did not cower or immediately apologize like other servants would have. Instead she nodded, blinking almost sheepishly. “My apologies, General.” She tilts her head up to gaze at him, eyes still effortlessly blank. “Please excuse my inconsideration for your comfort. Next time, I’ll-“

“Oh, there won’t _be_ a next time, believe me. If there is,” He takes it upon himself to lean forward and wrap one of his hands delicately around the maid’s neck. The Highblood was a large man; his hand easily encompassed the entirety of her neck—his index finger crammed against the underside of her jaw and his pinky just brushed below her collarbone. “I will break your neck, and Marcas here will have to find another minx from the orient.” The Highblood’s threat is followed by a choking sound from Dualscar—not the maid, he noted in irritation—as the other general almost dropped his pipe.

“God _dammit_ Magnus, I’ve told you a thousand fuckin’ times not to mess with the parlor maids.” Dualscar shoves his pipe none too gracefully into his mouth and puffs on it in an attempt to sooth his anger. “The other servants are fair game, but the maids? As untouchable as the fuckin’ moon.”

The Highblood, letting go of the maid’s neck, rolls his eyes and sits down in the chair. “Still head over heels for your own parlor maids, I see. I think the Condesce would have something to say about that.”

“Magnus I’m not takin’ yer shit right now, I am not in the mood for this. Bao-yu,” Dualscar barked, and the quiet maid looked up, “fetch the brats. We’ve gotta talk about somethin’ important with them.”

 The Handmaid brushes the tips of her fingers against her neck, casting a quick look at the Highblood before answering. “Yes, sir.”

**____________________**

When the breathing of the Scott before him finally transitioned from ragged to rhythmic, Gamzee lowered himself into his seat. His own breathing had been even for a while now, his pulse as mellow as he normally was.

He glanced carefully at the other, who was beginning to lower himself into his own seat. “So,” he says with a start, eyes half-lidded and mouth curling into a sheepish grin, “are you up and ready to tell a motherfucker what’s going on now, Ampora? I figure my old man and your bro ain’t gonna start no important business until we hightail it out of here and get back to that fancy little parlor of yours.”

“Okay.” an airy sigh from Ampora, “whatever. Me an’ my brother were talkin’ about the materials the Condesce would need.” He runs a hand through his hair and glances almost furtively at Gamzee, sighing afterward. Gamzee was giving him a blank look; an obvious sign that he’d either spaced out or had no idea what Eridan was talking about. Eridan, figuring it was the latter, carried on, “the materials. For the clockwork—the imperial drones. Fef, she advised the help a some fuckin’ nobody, you know? The Condesce’s fuckin’ _land steward_ of all people.” Eridan waves his hand dismissively as he says ‘nobody’, baring his teeth.

Gamzee didn’t even know Her Condescension had proper staff, never mind a land steward. The new information could prove helpful. “Well shit, who is this ‘nobody’ brother we’re getting our talk on about? I’d at least like to know his name.”

“Ugh, I don’t know. Dinghy? Dick?” Eridan scrunches his face in thought, frowning. “Dirk? I think that’s it. Dirk Strider or somethin’ bland like that.”

The corners of Gamzee’s lips twitch faintly in recognition. Dirk Strider? The name was familiar; he distinctly remembers a conversation he had eavesdropped on, between Sollux, the cocky Frenchman Dave, and Dave’s more rational cousin Rose. Sollux had brought up siblings, and Dave immediately got irritated—Gamzee was pretty sure that was the first time the blonde displayed that kind of emotion, for the way he went about showing his displeasure for the topic was odd, if not fascinating. Rose calmed him down easily though, and then mentioned something about not being able to be angry forever, about people making their own choices, and then she brought up that name. Dirk. Dave showed even _more_ irritation at the name, curiously enough, and that’s pretty much when the conversation went downhill.

‘I don’t want to hear that god awful name ever again’, he had said, and Rose looked a bit distraught at the time, Gamzee thought. Sollux fidgeted awkwardly while the two cousins tossed words at each other, and he remembers humorously the way the Scott began to talk under his breath, brows furrowing, and tongue gliding awkwardly across the tips of his teeth as he began to speak in a lisp.

But he digresses; he has thoroughly derailed his thought locomotive.

“Well, I wouldn’t be saying bland so quickly or anything...” Anybody who could grind Dave Strider’s gears like that had to be worth his weight in life. Eridan rolls his eyes theatrically, crossing his hands over his chest.

“Yeah, well, whatever. We should get back to the parlor before Marc blows his top or somethin’.” Eridan rises from his seat and stretches leisurely, walking towards Gamzee with purpose.

“I hear you, brother.” Gamzee rises soon after Eridan does, and meets the Scott halfway. There’s a simple knowing silence between them, and Gamzee takes his time to take in Eridan’s form. He wasn’t bad to look at, really; he had fair skin, his face was angular in all the right places with eyes a brilliant blue like the sea, full lips that always seemed to be thinned into a purse or sneer, and brushed-back ebony hair with a small shock of ginger in the front. They were natural gingers, Dualscar had said once; they just went out of their way to purchase expensive purple and black dyes to cover it up. Apparently being a ginger wasn’t all too great to them, although it was mildly attractive to Gamzee.

On the other hand, if Eridan made a move to openly observe Gamzee, Gamzee didn’t think he’d be all too great to look at. He was very skinny, and because of that some found it hard to relate him to his father, who was all hulking muscle and large hands. Gamzee himself was nothing but boniness, made of naught but elbows and sharp hips and protruding ribs. He was a mongrel with skin that was the lightest tan; a dark ball of wild tangles was what he called his hair (although, to defend himself, that was exactly how the Grand Highblood presented his hair too), and he was quite tall for a man his age. His eyes were the haziest grey that shone an iridescent indigo if you looked at them at the right angle, and Eridan did try to angle his face a few times to catch the shine of color. Well, at least that was one thing he found attractive about himself, Gamzee thought.

The meeting would end like always, with Gamzee and Eridan sharing a quick, passionate kiss. Eridan would wrap his arms possessively around the taller man’s hips and then they would compete for dominance in a brief session of frottage, before breaking apart and leaving the room as if nothing had happened. It was supposed to be the same old, same old, Gamzee thought—the intimacy was what kept Eridan tame and what got him the information he needed, and the Scottish man usually wasn’t pleased when there were interruptions.

There is a knock at the door followed by the twisting of its knob. Gamzee looks at the door and sighs irritably. It was an interruption, of course.

The door opens with a creak and Eridan spins on his heel to stare at whoever it was, eyes widening and cheeks flushing the lightest pink. What was there to be embarrassed about? It wasn’t like they were doing anything. Yet.

“Mr. Ampora, Mr. Makara. The generals wish to begin the meeting.” It was the Handmaid. Her eyes rest on Gamzee momentarily and her lip twitches before she switches back to Eridan. Gamzee raises his brows curiously.

“Yeah, we were just about to go an’ head back to the parlor.” Eridan, still a bit thrown-off by Bao-yu’s entry, begins to stutter out his Ws as he speaks. “Let’s go, Gam.” With a nod, he leaves. Gamzee casts one last glance at the maid before leaving.

Once the door closes, the Handmaid leans on the wall in thought. Usually there’d be some sort of evidence left behind of what the two men had been talking about, but tonight they left the study spotless. The desk was devoid of out of place papers and everything looked neat and tidy. Curious. “Perhaps the rebels are trying to be careful now,” She hums, and her lips quirk up in an amused smirk. She would have to send a letter to her Lord’s son later on to find out what was happening over at their HQ.

**____________________**

“Glad you two could finally fuckin’ make it,” Dualscar grunts as Gamzee and Eridan enter the parlor. The two are wordless, heading towards their seats with sheepish looks on their faces. “Now,” Dualscar breathes out a puff of smoke from his pipe, used to their silence, “for some reason The Condesce wishes for a general to attend the peerage meeting tonight. Lyubov is obviously not an appropriate choice for this because, fuck, when is she _ever_ a good choice for a mission, Abrafo is probably out killing rebels and Zacari is currently investigating something for The Condesce’s little brat.”

“You mean Fef,” Eridan quips.

“Whatever. All that matters is that me an’ Magnus here are really the only two available generals that the empress is close with and so one of us needs to attend this shit. The question now is who, and what will we be looking out for?”

“I haven’t been instilling nearly as much motherfucking fear as I would have liked to recently,” Magnus hums in mocking thought, leaning back in his chair. “Me and my boy can go. Those pretentious pieces of shit are pretty hard to scare, so it’ll be good practice for Gamzee here.” He leans forward and rests a hand on top of Gamzee’s head, ruffling the already unruly hair. Gamzee smiles.

“That’s fine with me. So, what do you think you should be lookin’ for, then?” Dualscar inquires.

“Well,” Eridan muses, absently fingering the ermine fur on his cape, “Fef said there might be a traitor amongst the nobility and she expressed interest in us tryin’ to find out who it is at the meetin’. I guess that’s one thing you could do.” There’s an annoyed glint in Dualscar’s eyes as he nods in agreement.

“You know the drill, though. Don’t go too overboard with it, and if you do find a potential traitor then, well.” Marcas puffs on the pipe in his hand, eyes narrowing. “Imprison them or send somebody to do reconnaissance. Just don’t fuckin’ kill them.”

“Ugh.” The Highblood scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t killed in _ages_ you know. What’s the point of going to this meeting if there won’t be any fucking blood to shed?”

“Stop your stupid complainin’. And I’m serious, Magnus. Kill one of those nobles and I’ll personally set your house on fire.” Actually, Dualscar would probably just make Bao-yu do it—she was surprisingly good at doing the General’s dirty work. “But look on the bright side. If you find me a traitor and we don’t get them to squeal, then you can torture them as much as you’d like and kill them at any time you please.”

Gamzee fidgets nervously at that. Magnus, on the other hand, is delighted with the news. “That’s just fucking great. Come on, boy, we have a meeting to attend.

**____________________**

“Don’t wander off too far, you two,” The Sufferer mutters discreetly, and with a nod Nepeta and Karkat walk towards the other youths of the meeting.

“So, this is what a meeting between the peerage looks like?” Puleng asks curiously, hooking one of her arms around the Sufferer’s. Blushing faintly, he nods. “It’s very laid-back. I was always under the impression that everybody would keep to themselves and be quiet or something.” The Disciple looks around at the gathered nobles chatting, smiling. “Do you speak often with any of these nobles, Kenny?”

“Yeah, I do. Some of them are really nice. It’s a shame none of them have thought about fighting against The Condesce,” He says softly, careful not to let anybody but Puleng hear. “Oh, there.” Kenway points towards a woman helping herself to a cup of tea “I know her. Would you like to meet her?” Puleng looks over to the woman. She was fairly pretty, with long dark brown hair pulled into a bubble ponytail and skin nearly the same color as Lalika’s. She must have been from India, then. Puleng nods enthusiastically, and they make their way towards the woman.

“Marchioness Nereid?” Kenway inquires, and the woman turns around in pleased surprise. The Disciple tilts her head a bit. A woman being a marquis was odd, and being a foreigner to boot—she was surprised none of the other nobles made a spectacle out of her.

“Earl Vantas!” She replies, smiling. “It’s been too long since the last meeting, hasn’t it? Oh,” the marchioness turns to Puleng, her smile growing wider. “This must be your wife! I can’t believe you’ve been keeping her a secret for so long. She’s much prettier than I expected her to be.”

“Oh please, don’t! I never know how to deal with flattery.” Puleng giggles, sheepishly pressing her face against Kenway’s arm in an attempt to hide.

“She’s the cutest thing, I must say. I do believe appropriate greetings are in order, though!” The marchioness chirps and gathers her skirts before curtsying. “My name is Vendit Nereid, or formally speaking, Marchioness Nereid. But please, if you wish to call me Vendit, then you most certainly can!”

“Hello, Vendit. I’m Puleng Leijon—oh.” The Disciple presses a hand against her cheek, looking away embarrassedly. “Puleng…Puleng Vantas. I’m so unused to greeting myself so you must excuse me. Having the surname of the man I love is like a dream to me!”

Vendit laughs and nods. “I know how you feel. Well, I’m not married yet, but,” she shoots a look towards a group of dukes and viscounts chatting animatedly amongst themselves. “Soon I think I’ll be, I can just feel it! Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’d like to speak to my ‘interest’ and see how he is doing.” With a playful wink, she walks off towards the group.

“She’s quite nice, Kenway! To think you could make friends outside of our little group.” The Disciple tippy toes and pecks Kenway on the cheek. He blinks in pleased surprise.

“Well,” He clears his throat slowly, giving the room a onceover. “I’m not the antisocial little monster I used to be when I was younger, so give me some credit. I had years to grow out of that… _phase_.” Kenway says the word like it’s funny to him, his lips quirking up in amusement.

“And grown you have. It’s hard to picture you as Crybaby Kenny now.” Puleng makes a contented sound akin to the purring of a cat and the Sufferer, in lieu of retorting, begins directing her to the great roundtable where the meeting would be held. He pulls a chair out for her and, after she sits, he takes a seat next to her.

“Puleng, we should talk before the meeting starts.” The Disciple stares curiously at Kenway. “Um, about what we should say during the meeting that is”

“Oh! Well, I figured it’d be something bland, you know? Just the usual, although,” She looks away in thought, “wasn’t there some huge crackdown on opium just a few minutes from the mansion? I remember you making a comment about it, and of dealing with the supplier I believe.”

The Sufferer winces noticeably, and the Disciple furrows her brows in worry. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? Kenway, is there something you haven’t told us about that bust?”

“Well, about that whole ordeal. I know I should have told all of you every detail about it and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but one of our members was involved in the drug bust.” He looks at his hands on the table, absentmindedly wiggling his thumbs. “He didn’t get caught, but...”

“But? Please, who was it? It...it wasn’t little Karkat, was it?” Puleng lowers her voice and looks around the room suspiciously, probably looking for Karkat.

“No, it wasn’t Karkat, don’t worry.” The Sufferer smiles meekly. “It was-“

“Gamzee! He’s here!” Nepeta skips over with Karkat in tow, frowning. She approaches Puleng and Kenway, ending their conversation. “I’d be happy to see him, but his pawful dad is with him too! He seems pretty happy about something.” She wrinkles her nose. With her cat puns in use, even Kenway couldn’t take her distaste seriously.

“Magnus is here?” So much for Caolan’s good luck. The Sufferer sighs and reclines back in his seat, running his hand through his hair. Puleng pouts.

“Come on! You didn’t tell me who the member was, Kenny- who was it?”

“Member of what? I hope you two aren’t sitting here _gossiping_ of all fucking things.” Karkat finally decides to butt his head into the conversation, and Nepeta nods in agreement.

“Yeah, we’re risking our tails doing espionage fur you guys and you’re sitting around talking about other things! Pawsitively outrageous, if you ask me.”

The Disciple laughs in reply. “You’re one to talk, Nepeta! We were just going over things regarding the opurration,” more cat punning, courtesy of Puleng, “right, Kenny?”

“Right. Now, you two sit down. The others are starting to gather around the table.” The Sufferer makes a gesture with his hands at Nepeta and Karkat, ushering them to sit down. “We’ll talk about this later, Puleng. I don’t want to risk acting sly in front of Magnus.”

Puleng wilts a little but nods regardless. “Alright. But don’t be so dodgy next time, okay?” She places a hand on top of the Earl’s and squeezes gently. “I…no, _we_ all care very much about the goings-on in our group, Kenway. To have one of our members involved in something as big as a drug bust…at least tell mama about that kind of stuff, if not Caolan or me!” The Sufferer nods obediently. The Disciple had an odd way of lecturing; she was never too stern and always friendly about it, and never placed blame on anybody. He wonders if she was taught such wonderful manners while in Africa, and simultaneously wondered what her parents must have been like—not at all for the first time.

“Whoa sister, you’ve got him in one hell of a trance.” Kenway starts and Puleng moves her hand quickly away from the Earl’s, turning to the source of the voice with a blush. It was Gamzee, dressed in fine livery no doubt to impress—dark trousers, a white dress shirt, and a vivid indigo vest adorned with a subtle cravat and a not-so subtle jeweled black spade tiepin. The resistance often wore livery with any of the four suits located somewhere on their person to show that they were in fact part of the Wild Cards and not some rogue rebel looking to access their resources and cause trouble.

“Gamzee!!” Nepeta squeals, practically bouncing in her seat. Despite the Sufferer’s request to stay seated she gets up, moving to clasp the tall man’s hands. To anybody not in their little resistance group it may have looked like Nepeta fancied Gamzee, but she was excited like this most of the time.

“Aw, hey little kitty.” Gamzee pinches Nepeta’s cheeks lightly and nods towards Karkat, a lazy little grin on his face. “Karbrother, you look pretty pouty.”

The Sufferer snorts. “Pray tell what _else_ is new?”

“He gets it from you, you know!” Puleng exclaims, nudging the Earl in his side. Karkat simply huffs and rolls his eyes. He’s been strangely silent since arriving at the meeting, and Kenway was starting to suspect that something was wrong.

The room begins to quiet a little at the sound of heavy footsteps, and Nepeta hides her tiny frame behind Gamzee. “Shit, that’s dad. You know the drill.” ‘The drill’ being to act casual, but not too casual; Magnus knew that Gamzee was acquainted with Earl Vantas, but nothing more.

“Boy, what are you doing?” The Highblood finally enters, equipped with the same attire as Gamzee sans the tiepin; much of the idle chatter ceased at once, and the peers and peeresses all began to gather around the table.

Gamzee shrugs and moves himself over to reveal Nepeta “Just wanted to see the little one.” Nepeta was twenty years of age, no more or no less, but to everybody she hasn’t explicitly told her age to she appeared twelve, sometimes even younger—it was a good thing, too. A wife was one thing, but a daughter who was only nine years younger than her supposed father? ‘Pawfully suspicious’, Nepeta would have said. “Come on, missy. It’s time to get you seated before dad throws a fit.” With a chuckle Gamzee escorts Nepeta back to her seat and she gladly accepts, moving to sit between Karkat and her sister.

Magnus gazes around the room, and his lips spread wide into a beguiling grin, surprising the Sufferer—but nobody else, apparently. “Allow me to introduce myself to the peerage.” He walks to the front of the room and stands behind the president of the meeting, “for you may recognize my son Gamzee, but not me. I am Magnus Makara, and I am the second general of Her Imperious Condescension.” Whispers and surprised gasps erupt around the room. Not many got to see the generals’ faces, no less the peerage; the Condesce usually kept them to herself, sending them out only for the most important of purposes. The Sufferer and the members of his organization were quite _friendly_ with the Generals, however.

The Highblood stops smiling, and his eyes narrow. “Speaking unless spoken to is forbidden in my presence. All of you, shut up or I’ll shut you up myself.” The noise stops as quickly as it started, but not before a Viscountess indignantly whispers something about nerve and rank and something or the other. “I am here under the Condesce’s orders to see to it that none of you are slacking off in your duties. Should you prove that your effort has been less than satisfactory, you will fall from grace quicker than I can break your neck,” He chuckles darkly, looking at his hands. “And believe me when I say I can break your neck in mere _seconds_. Now all of you sit.” In but a few seconds the noblemen and noblewomen are sitting down, with Gamzee and Magnus standing at the front. “The president of the meeting may start.”

The one presiding the meeting, the Duke of York, clears his throat with ease and folds his hands on top of the desk. “All of you should know the drill. We give reports descending down hierarchy, incidents first and monetary gain after. Nothing has occurred in York that has required my attention, and income has been coming accordingly. This month has been a quiet one for my duchy, and hopefully it shall remain as such.”

Time rolled along, with many things to note—a band of thieves in the Duke of Cornwall’s duchy who have been robbing the nobility, a duchess to be wedded and the ceremonies that went along with it, and a few other things from a marquis or two—next came Marchioness Nereid, who was as calm as she had been earlier. “No major incidents to report. A few foreigners entered my lands, but that is nothing new—being on the border, it’s expected for travelers to come and go from these lands.”

Magnus grunts and raises his brows. “And you saw them, these foreigners?” The Marchioness nods. “Yet you did not stop them. I wonder why.”

“General,” the disbelief in Vendit’s voice was barely hidden as she furrowed her brows, “surely you do not think I am to be involved in _all_ of the comings and goings in my march, do you? Foreigners are not rare and without the proper documentation they can’t really do much while here. Nobody of ill intent would freely go in and out of the country without thought.”

“That is what you’d like to believe, but people of _ill intent_ do have means to freely move about in the country. You know, with alliances; deals made with distinguished members of society. Does that ring any bells?” The Disciple moves her hands to her mouth to stifle a small gasp. The Highblood was accusing the Marchioness of working alongside the Wild Cards! That was unfair; the marquises and marchionesses had every right not to be concerned with a few travelers entering the lands—she was about to say just that, when the Duke of Cornwall cleared his throat.

“If I may interrupt? News spreads quickly, and I’ve ‘eard that the work of the rebels has been dwindling down considerably.” His eyes, a sharp hazel, flicker between the Marchioness and the General. “Even so, if my sources do happen to be wrong, there are twice the amount of charlies in a march than there are in a duchy. Marchioness Nereid’s lands should be well protected, and well guarded. If there was a rise, I’m sure she’d know about it.” The Disciple glances at Vendit to gauge her reaction, only to find her subtly hiding her face. Was she flustered? Puleng didn’t blame her; with all of this attention focused on her, she would have been as red as a tomato, too.

Magnus growls in annoyance and signals for the meeting to continue, fortunately letting Nereid off the hook. Next came the Earls, and Kenway was the first to report. “Unfortunately, we’ve had a bit of incident in my earldom. There’s been an opium bust in the slums, and some higher-ups have been dabbling in it on a daily basis.” Gamzee looks down at his shoes uncomfortably, frowning. Karkat, ever-so watchful, takes note and scowls in the taller man’s direction. He did not look as innocent as he should have looked. “I’ve gone to confront the issue with a few of the police, but in our haste we seemed to surprise and upset the patrons of the opium den. The head of the den was killed by one of her clientele, and the murderer put into custody. He was later put to hang at the gallows. The opium within the den has been cleared out, and the building has been demolished.” The Highblood nods in approval, crossing his arms over his chest. At least he didn’t find anything suspicious about that. “Revenue has been coming along fine and a third-penny has been taken, as required. That is all,” with a nod, the Sufferer signals for the next Earl to begin. This continues for the next forty five minutes, with the Countesses, Viscounts, Viscountesses, Barons, and finally the Baronesses going.

At the end of the meeting Gamzee makes a slow beeline to the nearest balcony, with Karkat trailing tepidly afterwards. Most of the nobles decided to stay (even though admittedly most were quite fearful of Magnus) while few left; the Sufferer and the Disciple stood off to the side watching Nepeta, who trailed after the retreating forms of the Highblood and the Duke of York.

“So, do you have any doubts about any of our leadership abilities, General?” The duke inquired, tilting his head to the side. The two of them didn’t notice Nepeta yet, even with her prowling from doorway to doorway behind them.

The Highblood wrinkles his nose, breathing out a growl. “No, but I do have doubts about your manners. You’re lucky I haven’t ripped any tongues out.” He did not forget about any of the interruptions during the meeting, or the way the Marchioness was supported during his accusation.

The duke laughs casually, his visible eye squinting. “Well, we all can’t be polite to our higher-ups, can we?” He raises a hand and flicks absently at a piece of cloth on his face—an eye patch covering his left eye, decked out with frills and elaborate patterns…most unbefitting of a man of any status. “Why, quite a few of the peerage even complained about a simple military general ordering them around like they were servants or something. Made them awfully mad, that.”

“Listen, duke-”

“Radoss. Please, call me Radoss.”

“ _Radoss_. I’m going to strike a deal with you, on behalf of Her Imperious Condescension. And ignore that fucking comment, while I’m at it.” He stops just before the door of a parlor, gesturing with a hand for Radoss to enter. The duke does so, but not before tossing a look behind him- directly at the peeking Nepeta. She stifles a gasp at being caught, her gloved hands slapping noiselessly against her mouth; Radoss grins before entering the room. Magnus, still unaware of Nepeta’s presence, steps in after and leaves the door ajar.

Nepeta creeps slowly towards the room, a frown on her face. He saw her, and he grinned, but he made no move to tell the Highblood or anything!! Perhaps he was waiting to tell him? But…that made no sense. The consequences would still be the same, even if he ratted her out later on—even after she heard about the deal. After all, she was a young girl, and what better did she know? She was still a child, after all.

“Oh, that’s right…the deal.” She whispers, having almost forgot. She scurries over to the door and peeks inside, eyes squinting at the lack of candlelight in the room.

“…keep an eye on the peerage, take note of the things they say, boring things like that that I could never be bothered with.” Nepeta ducks at the sound of Magnus’s voice, but he’s seated comfortably on a settee facing away from her, with Radoss gazing nonchalantly at the hearth of the unlit fireplace.

A few seconds pass before anything else is uttered. Then the Duke turns towards the Highblood, a crooked grin on his face. Nepeta felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. That smile was practically screaming “façade”, like…something was wrong, but then not. Like one of them—she or Magnus, she did not know—had something to be weary of, but whom…and of what? She moves away from the doorway and leans against the wall in the hallway, casting a sideways glance at the way from which they came. She could just walk back to the meeting space; tell Kenway that nothing of importance occurred between the Duke and General and that they could leave. But that duke was awfully suspicious, and she wanted to find out what his deal was.

“Well well, what do we have here,” A voice cuts through her thoughts, and she jumps when Radoss comes into view. Oh no, did the deal end? Did he agree to it? How could she not have been paying attention? “A little kitten seems to have stumbled across a lion’s den.”

“Who is it?” _Oh no_. Nepeta’s eyes widen and she stands still, shoulders tensed. It was Magnus. Her knees locked into place as she stared, alarmed, at the hulking man. Now that he was near, she could easily see how tall he was; around six feet, with his tangled, wild hair adding on to his height in his favor. He looked imposing. She gulped.

The Duke shrugs. “It’s one of the Earls’ children. She got lost looking for the bathroom.” Nepeta’s lip wobbles, and it takes a few minutes for it to click. Bathroom? But…he saw her stalking them; he _knew_ she had been stalking them. “I’ll take her there. We’ll be in touch, General.” Nepeta feels a hand on her back, pushing her forward, and soon both she and the Duke are walking back in the direction of the meeting room.

Away from the bathroom.

“Next time you should run. Or at least try not to look like a deer about to get shot.”

“I don’t understand. You didn’t tell on me?” Nepeta frowns, although it was silly of her to be upset with Radoss’s decision. It was her life on the line, after all. “I thought you and the General…I thought-”

“Looks can be deceiving, little one. Or is that improper of me to say? Excuse me.” Again Nepeta’s eyes widen and she looks up at Radoss, who’s grinning pleasantly. “I apologize. I didn’t think I’d be putting my hand on a lady without her permission.” He removes his hand from her back, letting it rest at his side. “You’re a debutante, I presume? You look awfully young, mate. Guess that’s beneficial for your little…’organization’.”

Disbelief is evident in the way Nepeta looks at him, but it suddenly blooms into anticipation and she looks at him threateningly. If she were a cat, Radoss bets she would have been hissing with her hackles raised. “You…know too much. Who are you?” She flexes her fingers. Did she think she could scratch his eye out or something? He only had his right one left; it’d suck to lose that one, too.

Low chatter finally becomes full-out background noise as they both enter the meeting room. “Shh, young miss.” Radoss places a gloved finger against his lips, effectively silencing the dark-skinned girl. “Don’t worry about that. Just do me a favor, okay?” Nepeta nods. “Tell the Sufferer that the pirate has entered the witch’s lair, and that the gypsy will request an audience quite soon.” That…didn’t make sense? And he called him the Sufferer, although that…that was an organization-given title. Outside, the peerage and working class saw him as the Signless; to them, his other title didn’t even exist. And yet this duke…

“Hey, how do you know his-” She stops and turns on her heel, confused. The chatter was still at a constant, and Nepeta could see Puleng and Kenway approaching her, but Radoss…

The duke was gone.

 **____________________**  

Vendit tightens the capelet around her shoulders, walking at a brisk pace out of the courtyard. It was evening now, and the air was getting cooler; normally she fared well with summer breezes, but today it did nothing but chill her to the bone. The carriage would be waiting for her around the corner, though; she could get home quickly, and this day would be over.

What the General did back at that meeting was unbelievable! Accusing her of treason against the Empress, why, she’d never…! “Humph, what kind of manners were those, anyway?” She puffs out her cheeks and continues walking, rounding the corner. After a while she begins looking around, and a brow arches in puzzlement. Her carriage and footman were nowhere to be seen. Where were they? There were no other carriages in sight; the members of peerage that fled were long gone now, probably all returning to their duchies, marches, earldoms, viscounties, and baronies. How comfortable they must be, she thought, in the warmth of their carriages. Where could hers possibly be?

 _Clip clop, clip clop_. The familiar sound of the hooves of horses hitting pavement reaches Vendit’s ears, and her shoulders sag in relief. That must be her carriage. “ _Śarma kī bāta hai_ , Jeeva! You’re later than a fat horse in a field of grass!” She smiles through her reprimands and begins hurrying towards the sound, stopping only when she saw the carriage.

It was hers, alright, but the horses— two young gypsy vanner mares—looked weird. Something was off about their piebald coats, as if another color seemed to be added onto it. They were small dark speckles, but still noticeable against the white patches on the horses’ bodies. They also looked very haggard, as if they had been pulling something heavy. Somebody clears their throat. “Hello, Marchioness.”

Heavy indeed.

It was the Highblood, all deadly smiles and calmness and…red. All over the sleeves of his dress shirt, on his cheeks, painting his hair…Vendit whimpers. “ _Blood_.” Her hands flutter to her mouth as the carriage comes to a halt, just a leap away from her. Where was her footman? Magnus was here, but Jeeva was nowhere to be seen…did the General relieve him of his duties?

“Do you like it? Red is such a brilliant color. Not better than indigo, but still quite _ravishing_ ,” He says innocently enough, but the way the corners of his lips curl and twitch manically give him away. “There’s a little gift in the seat within the carriage. You should get in and take a peek.”

Vendit did not want to take a look at this gift, nor did she want to get into a carriage that the General was directing. For all she knew, he could be planning on driving off the road into a river, or worse. “Where is Jeeva?” She asks, her lips trembling. “Where is my footman?”

It’s almost as if Magnus doesn’t hear her, the way he calmly slips out of the driver’s seat to open up the cab of the carriage. He opens the door easily with a large hand, and grab’s Vendit by the arm with another.

“Come now, dear Marchioness,” He purrs, all but pushing her into the carriage next to the present he left for her, “You and I, we’re going to have a long, cozy chat.”

Vendit could not even find it in her to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. - I'M SORRY THAT KARKAT IS ACTING SO WEIRD?? That will definitely be explained in the chapters to come, I promise u v u
> 
> P.S.S. - A dollar says you can't tell who was involved in that opium bust c8


End file.
